


The Look Of A Sentinel

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 09:33:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/796711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's, like, 6kb. Just read the story! (g) Okay, PLEASE read the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Look Of A Sentinel

## The Look Of A Sentinel

by Pink Dragon

I'm a frazzled wreck of a mess and am begging for positive reinforcement. 

* * *

Jim has a lot of different looks. The thousand dollar suit look (family money,) that he wears to court. The preppy, frat-boy look he used to wear on dates, before he stopped dating. The business-casual look that he wears to work. But this, this look is my favorite. This look makes me want to bend him over the sofa and fuck him till he screams like a girl and comes all over the upholstery. Bare feet and soft, faded jeans cut off high on the thigh. Ravelled and worn. White tank top, just a little tighter than he'd wear in public. Old clothes he wore a few years ago before he started hitting the gym, hard. He calls this his "laundry outfit." What he wears when he's out of clean clothes. 

I call it fucking hot. 

He's smiling at me when I come through the door of the loft. That's another look I like on him, the one that says he's happy to see me. "Hey," I say, smiling back. He's leaning back against the low stone wall that surrounds the patio and keeps us from tumbling into the alley. The shades are up, the windows are wide open, and there's a fresh, salty smelling breeze coming in off the ocean. It feels great now, but it'll get chilly later. 

"Hey, Chief. I didn't hear your car." He takes a long swallow from the beer bottle he's holding loosely by the neck. As he tips his head back, my eyes follow the long line of his throat, down to his chest, and down some more. He has the thumb of his other hand tucked inside his waistband and his long fingers are fanned across the front of his cut-offs. I'm pretty sure he's at least half-hard, and I'm also pretty sure every pair of Fruit-Of-The-Looms he owns are in the basement in the washer. This is a brand new look. I think I like it, too. 

I turn away to drop my pack by the door and toe off my sandals, my mind spinning with the possibility, the probability, that he's finally ready to take that trip. I turn back slowly and look at him again, and I realize, he was waiting for me to come home. Waiting on the patio, listening for my car. 

"Kevin gave me a ride home. I dropped my car off at Midas. The muffler fell off right in the middle of Plaza Parkway," I say, a little breathlessly, trying to keep my eyes on his, or at least keep them above his waist. 

"I told you it was about to go. You should listen to your Sentinel. I have really good hearing, you know," he teasingly replies. Now he has a different look. Anticipatory, that's all I can call it, and I know he caught me looking. 

I lean back against the front door and cross my arms over my chest. "Nice look there, laundry boy." He takes another long swig of beer and slowly crosses one ankle over the other, watching me slyly, all the time. The denim of his cut-offs pulls tight across his groin, and I was right. He's at least half-hard. At least. 

A sudden vision blasts through my mind's eye, and I see him, on his back, beneath me, those long, strong legs wrapped hard around my waist as I move lazily inside him. His head's tipped back, arms thrown wide, his back arched, face and chest shimmering with perspiration, his hard cock lying against his abdomen, balls drawn up tight, ready to come. I have to stifle a gasp. 

"Been a busy week, you know?" he says. 

"You've been off work for four days in a row," I say, trying to sound normal. 

"Been busy, though. You know." He shrugs, carefully nonchalant. (Not my favorite look.) "Thinking." Oh. That's right. He was waiting for me to get home. 

"Thinking?" I answer quietly. "Thinking about what, exactly?" I uncross my arms and push away from the door, my heart hammering in my chest as I walk slowly across the living room toward the patio, and Jim. The wood floor feels cool against my bare feet and I can feel the breeze moving the hair on my arms. Everything seems to be happening in slow motion, and I feel like my own senses are heightened. 

"Us, Blair. I've been thinking about us," he says quietly, longing and hope and desire in equal portions on his handsome face. I've never seen this look before. I love this look. 

I look back at him, longing and hope and desire on my face, too. I walk out onto the patio, and as I get near him, he stretches one arm out and places the beer bottle on top of the stone wall he's leaning on. He uncrosses his legs and stands up straight, and I walk right into his arms. His arms go tight around me, and I wrap mine around him, just as tight. I press my face into his neck and whisper, "Hi, honey. I'm home." 

He makes some strange sound against my hair, somewhere between a guffaw and a choked sob, and he squeezes me hard. I can feel the hard muscles of his chest against mine, and the hard length of his cock against my abdomen. "You feel so good, Blair," he whispers, as his hands start moving over my body. "You feel so fucking good." He feels pretty fucking good to me, too. I tip my head back to look at him, and what I see takes my breath away. As he bends down to kiss me I see tenderness, and hope, and desire, and love. 

And that's the look I've been waiting for. 

* * *

End The Look Of A Sentinel by Pink Dragon: pinkdragon456@aol.com

Author and story notes above.

  
Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


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